


Natural

by WolvZephyr



Category: Lobotomy Corporation (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolvZephyr/pseuds/WolvZephyr
Summary: Binah/Angela (well, actually, Garion/Angela) slice-of-life vignettes. Head AU."A Corp. is experimenting with new training methods. You are expected to teach a new Arbiter, starting tomorrow."
Relationships: Angela/Binah (Lobotomy Corporation), Angela/Garion (Lobotomy Corporation)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Natural

**Author's Note:**

> We really don't know much at all about Garion, so the differences between her personality and Binah's are all mostly guesses from the few lines of dialogue we got. Overall: Garion is written here in a way that's meaner and blunter than Binah (especially compared to Ruina's).

"Excuse me. A message for you, Arbiter Garion."

"Yes, what is it?" Garion looks up from her newspaper. It's not her job to make sure the right things get printed, but she can't help being curious. Arbiters aren't told more than what they need to know in the first place. The messenger is a young man in Claw uniform. He rises from his bowing position, speaking quickly and clearly. 

"A Corp. is experimenting with new training methods. You are expected to teach a new Arbiter, starting tomorrow."

"I see. Unorthodox indeed. Relay that I will await their arrival."

At her nod, he turns and leaves, opening and closing the door behind him with a click. 

A direct subordinate, hm. She's commanded the Claws on innumerable occasions, but they're not quite the same. They're designed to follow orders like pawns, having sacrificed most if not all of their identity in the process of recruitment and conversion. Most Arbiters are allowed to stay mostly as they are, especially those like Garion who naturally align with the work. That is, as far as she knows. Not once has she spoken to another one directly. She's not interested in them, anyway... Or at least she wasn't, but now she wonders what kind of person they're deploying here. Her methods are effective and cleaner than most, but a little eccentric.

The Head will be the Head, as inscrutable as always. Garion turns her eyes back to the paper in her hand. The journalists don't write about Outskirts companies being destroyed.

* * *

"I am Arbiter Trainee Angela." The machine bows sharply. "It is an honor to meet you, Arbiter Garion."

"A Corp. sent you?" Garion raises an eyebrow slightly. Among the potential candidates for a new agent, a robot was close to the bottom of possibilities in her mind. Not to mention one so clearly flaunting the AI Ethics Amendment in both appearance and sapience. Unless it was produced directly by the Head, it's nigh impossible to find a specimen like this within the City nowadays.

"Yes. I will be in your care." The machine opens its eyes. The golden lenses spin and focus, meeting Garion's impassive black. It wears the standard feathered cape, but the longcoat is replaced with a suit-vest over a knee-length skirt. Long powder blue hair frames its impeccable face: The very image of a stunningly beautiful, serious young woman, as unsubtly artificial as it is.

Garion takes her time inspecting this carefully constructed non-human. It doesn't object when she takes hold of its arm and lifts it, nor when she tilts its chin up, but turns a little pink when she brings her face close. In all likelihood she is not allowed to ask for information on origins, and so she doesn't. Instead, she asks, "Angela, how much identity do you have?"

"I may be a machine, but I would consider myself equal to any human." The words are delivered with no hesitation despite the blasphemy.

"Are you accurate?"

"I am a woman." 

Garion almost laughs. So this AI can catch double meanings too. Garion is most often deployed to the Outskirts, so machines with emotions are no new sight. But creatures this sophisticated are extremely few and far between, not the least because it requires significant resources to create one. Those encounters are fond memories. Things that only realize the weight of death when they're moments away have such fascinating reactions.

(Although, it's unfair of her to say "things" in this case. Garion corrects herself mentally. If this AI is equal or above human sapience, it would be far more appropriate to refer to her as a person rather than an object like any machine—Especially given that she has a self-image. As little as the Head cares for non-humans, Garion thinks of herself as a person with class.)

* * *

Angela stares at her hands. The blood was cleaned off an hour ago, but she stands there, still. Thinking, cogitating about the lives she'd just ended. To make her do this work when she's clearly not designed for it seems sadistic. Maybe she'll snap and end up taking to it, though. Who knows.

"Can you taste?" Garion asks. Angela startles and clasps her hands together in front of her, more like a secretary than an apprentice.

"No," she answers, perplexed. "But I can eat."

"Then you can have this." Garion holds a small shortbread cookie to Angela's mouth. "I would pour you tea, but at least this has some texture."

Angela looks at the biscuit, then at her. Tentatively, she breaks off a piece with her teeth. She chews and swallows. "Like sand," she says.

"Is that so." Garion pops the rest of the cookie in her mouth. Another person could go on a long monologue about its buttery taste or crisp texture. To Garion, it's not much better than sand either. "We're going back to headquarters. The Sweepers will clean this up for us."

"...Yes."

* * *

As large as the City is, the reputation of the Head means that few incidents are of such scale that an Arbiter is dispatched. Most of the busywork is left to the Claws, who hunt down patent offenders and investigate amendment breaches. Thus, Garion only has work once a week, often less. She's required to be on call at all times, of course, and the maintenance of her Singularities can take some time out. But, usually, she gets to spend her time as she pleases. Strolling through Nests in civilian clothes is a recent hobby of hers; Watching people trudge around and live their lives is interesting, and she likes to see something other than blood splatters and dust once in a while.

Today, she is wearing a black business suit. It's the type you could see anywhere with any salary-worker, purposely left a little wrinkled. 

Even though it's outside of direct work hours, Angela chose to follow. Who knows why she was interested, considering it's just walking in silence half the time. She also chose to borrow some of Garion's clothes for the occasion, currently dressed in a turtleneck that looks a tad tight around the chest area and loose everywhere else. It's normally a slim fit on its original owner, so there's little wonder why. 

"What's that?" Angela asks. She points at a store.

"A gardening store," Garion explains. "They sell flowers and plants. Stores like these are getting popular in Nests. They feel like they're achieving something when their cactus doesn't die, even if they can only water it once a week between their long shifts."

"Is that so." Angela watches the shop. Her line of sight points at a particular flower.

"You would like one."

"I don't get paid." Angela turns her eyes away. It's already a major mercy on the Head's part to even allow her to exist as one of their fabled "special exceptions", but it's still odd to hear. 

"Then I'll buy it for you." At this, Angela glances up at Garion with unabashed surprise. Garion, for her part, stays stone-faced.

Kindness isn't something in her lexicon, much less the Head's. However, today she feels like buying flowers, and if they happen to be placed in someone else's possession, that is merely how it is.

* * *

Angela drags one of her legs behind her, limping along. The pistons and hydraulics are exposed, slashed open by an unlucky scuffle with corporate security. As the man fell, his sword fell in an odd arc and neither of them were looking. A careless mistake that would have never happened on a solo mission.

Garion turns around, waiting for her to catch up from some meters away. "Does it hurt?"

"No. But when the blade landed, kind of." It slows her down, and the dirt and dust is getting stuck to the blood on her clothes. Neither of them are supplied with K Corp's healing Singularity, if it would even work on artificial joints at all, and neither of them have the technical experience to fix it. 

After about half a minute, Angela stops next to her. Any more of this, and it will take until sundown for them to get back to base. Sweepers are smart enough not to attack even injured members of the Head, but the smell of liquified flesh is something she would like to avoid. "Would you like me to speed this up for you?"

"Speed this up?" She tilts her head. "Sure."

In a moment, Garion sweeps an arm under her knees, lifting her. Metal weighs more than bone, but considering so many people in the City have augmentations, she doesn't weigh that much more than normal. Either way, it doesn't matter. Her strength is modified enough that she can rip metal doors off their frames like tin foil.

Angela makes an "Ah" sound, holding onto the edge of her cape for balance. She's cradled against Garion's chest, partially hidden in her cloak. The feathers cover her face. She clings more closely than strictly necessary.

An Arbiter strides at her normal speed.

* * *

It's been a month into this "training." Thus far it amounts to Garion bringing Angela with her on assignments. She's not a very direct teacher. In her opinion, it's better to come to conclusions yourself. That, and the lost expression Angela makes is quite entertaining. With Angela over her shoulder all the time, she's had to find her fun in other areas than tormenting cowards. The intimidation effect is lessened whenever Angela pipes up with a mistimed "what are you doing" or "did you find the spy", so it's only fair that she pays for it with a little light-hearted teasing. 

Of course, fairness is a subjective thing that doesn't matter in the City, so a bit extra is fine too. It helps that she flusters easily if Garion gets in her personal space. Her voice might not waver, but her skittish body language is interesting to watch.

(Perhaps it's not quite accurate to call it "teasing" if it's being so actively encouraged. A better word is "flirting.")

In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, she joins her on her days off more often than not. When she isn't in for maintenance, her favorite place seems to be Garion's apartment. It's as if she lives here, rather than whatever lab she keeps her equipment in. She even plugs into the wall socket sometimes.

"Arbiter Garion." Angela speaks, taking a seat on the couch beside her. As indirect as it was, she's learned a lot about the trade in a short amount of time. Even by the first week she could have started working alone. The benefits of a powerful AI, perhaps. Born like Athena from the head of Zeus.

"Yes?" Garion answers. She casually slides a hand around Angela's shoulder, smirking to herself when she blushes. She doesn't know how long this arrangement is going to last—because the Head is fickle even on a good day—but when it does, she might miss it. If she didn't know better, she would think she's getting weak.

"You always call me just 'Angela.' Should I drop the title too?" Angela leans into her side, finding a comfortable spot. Her head rests on her shoulder. 

"Be my guest." She yawns. On the windowsill is a small bouquet of hydrangeas in a vase of water: One of the only spots of color in this minimalistic room, otherwise decorated with only monochrome essentials. 

"Then, Garion." Angela looks her in the eyes, expression grave. "Do you like your job?"

"Hmm. I'm content with it. It's a unique position with many sights to offer."

"I see." Angela looks down. "I don't like it, but I'll do what I have to in order to live."

"It's true. Any insubordination and you'll be expunged before you or I could say another word."

"Please don't remind me." She sighs. "I wish I was human."

"For what it counts, it doesn't matter to me."

"Does anything matter to you?"

"Romantically?"

Angela stares at her, incredulous at the sheer whiplash of the one-word response. "What?"

"I like women," Garion says. Plain as day, like discussing the weather.

A long pause. It's obvious that was not what Angela meant. It is the truth, though. And if Angela wanted something from her, Garion would be entirely happy to oblige. Machine or not, she's undeniably attractive. Unless they're a kill target, Garion has a habit of being soft on driven women. That said, she has responsibility to uphold as a more-or-less mentor figure, so she'll let Angela draw the line where she wants it.

Giving her a break, she re-answers, "Well, even if you were human, insubordination would mean death anyway."

"...Morbid, but true." Angela's tone is hesitant, like she doesn't know if she should have said anything. 

* * *

Garion likes cats. 

Not that much, mind you; She wouldn't keep one, and if the Head demanded that all living things be exterminated within a certain area, it would be easy for her to comply, human or animal. (She wouldn't describe herself as heartless, but it's not a description she would reject either.)

But she admires their way of life. At least, those described in old encyclopedias and tales. The modern housecat is kept close even in a Nest, because a wandering animal is a prime target for any wayward Sweeper, who will easily and happily snatch a potential snack off the street. Even in the daytime, some Rats will jump at the opportunity to stave off starvation. The age of keeping cats indoors for worry of its mass killing wildlife is long over, replaced with one where the worry that it will be hurt is an utter certainty rather than a possibility. 

No, she does not admire the domestic cat. She likes the great big ones, apexes of their realms. Tigers, lions—ones that once roamed freely hunting prey. (Now kept only by the richest and most vain of executives willing to shell out for DNA synthesized pets.) The captivating power they hold over a base-born human, their natural claws and dynamic build. 

"You remind me of a panther," Angela says. "A handsome black leopard."

"How so?" Garion asks.

"Well, you're stretched out on the sofa and yawning like you have nothing better to do. Your wardrobe is almost completely black. You do whatever you want without thinking of others."

"Ah, you may be right." Garion rolls over. Her head rests on Angela's lap. "Then I think you're like a rabbit... or perhaps a fox."

"Smaller animals," Angela comments.

"I like watching you hop around." She smiles. "Cute, a little moody. Cunning."

Angela's face flushes. "Should I be offended?"

"I think it's all very charming." 

As of late, Angela's been getting closer. Physically, that is. When on a stroll, she seeks out Garion's arm on the regular, sticking to her side as if the cold winds bothered her. They don't, for the record. Garion asked her once, and she jumped away, startled, and said as such. 

Garion feels fingers on her head. A hand runs through her short hair, softly. She closes her eyes, letting Angela pet her. It feels warm.

* * *

Garion is immune to fear. However, the amount of time that is passing with no further remarks is starting to make her wonder. Could it be possible they forgot? It has been three months now, but it's doubtful the Head would forget about a massively illegal AI kept inside the City. They don't pay her to ask questions, though, and she's always stayed loyal to the ideals of A Corp. Even if she isn't afraid of death, it would be inconvenient and unpleasant to be killed off and replaced. 

But if it's their goal to obtain a competent Arbiter, not only do they have plenty of other candidates, but Angela has been perfectly fine executing missions without Garion's input. She still doesn't know why they didn't send her to the Outskirts immediately on discovery, as their policy with the AI Ethics Amendment normally decrees. Truly, mysterious motives.

It doesn't help that Angela has been getting antsy the past week or so. She's keeping something from her. One would think a robot would be better at regulating her reactions and emotional responses, but Angela is infinitely more expressive than any of her human peers—Never mind Garion, the infamously impassive. 

Perhaps she knows the date of their separation? She can't imagine why it would stress her, or why she would not say anything if it bothered her so. Other possibilities are that one or both of them are to be scrapped, but even at its most capricious the Head has had some reason to do so. Angela spends so much time around Garion that it's unlikely that she's managed to infringe on any behavioral guidelines in her own time. 

Thinking deeply, Garion savors her bitter tea, lying on the sofa. She watches her from across the room. Angela is reading a book while the television gives some news bulletin. New products from Wings, or something of the sort. The channels are all inane, marketed towards the peaceful Nest dwellers who can afford to buy a TV in the first place. Garion was one of those once, but they never held her interest even when she was a child. Naturally gifted, some people called her. Others preferred to say scary, alarming, sick. It didn't make a difference to her. 

Every so often, Angela looks at the window. At first she thought it was to people-watch, but she's looking for the flowers that once sat there. They withered a long while ago and were tossed away. Angela liked them quite a bit, it appears.

"Do you want to visit the gardening store again?"

"No," Angela says. Her gaze falls. "I was just thinking about how short life is."

"Not for you," Garion says, "and to an extent, not for me either. I'm older than I look, you know."

"That explains your back problems."

"That was a spinal enhancement that needed minor adjustments." Garion sighs melodramatically. "It turns out, being punched in the back by a battering ram tilts things a little bit."

"Rude. I apologized for that." Angela pretends to be offended, closing her novel with a thump. Two weeks ago she had accidentally crashed through a wall and into Garion on the other side. The only damage was a very slight misalignment that required a checkup a week later. Minor, but still one of few times in recent memory that Garion has been injured. In any capacity that required another person's attention, that is.

She laughs. When she opens her eyes, Angela is kneeling at the edge of the sofa. There's a flicker of some emotion on her face, the same one Garion's been seeing all week. Slowly she raises a hand to hold Angela's cheek. "What's that look for?"

Angela holds it there. "What do you mean?"

"Lost, confused. Do you want to tell me something?"

She closes her eyes and turns away. "It's inappropriate."

"Nothing's inappropriate to me."

Angela laughs at that, with a single fake sound. "I guess that's true."

"Go on, then." Garion brushes her thumb against her smooth, unnatural skin. "I'm not going to die, am I?"

"Be serious."

"I am. Speak your mind freely."

Angela inhales and says it all at once. "I like you."

"I like you too."

She opens her eyes. "...No, I mean I—"

Garion pulls her down by the tie. 

Her lips are soft. Angela is frozen for a moment in shock, then she returns to reality, reciprocating in full force. Garion intended initially to pull away after just a second or two—a chaste kiss, you know, to be considerate and still get a point across—but it appears the other woman had different ideas in mind. Angela tilts her head and puts a hand on the back of Garion's neck, holding her there. It's far from objectionable, though. It's a good thing, actually. Just surprising. It's not what she expected from someone of her demeanor.

When she finally tugs on the back of Angela's shirt and she leans away, the both of them are breathing heavily, Angela significantly more despite no need of oxygen. "Have you been waiting all week to do that?" Garion asks.

"Kind of." Angela is red from her cheeks to the tips of her ears. Her arms are looped around Garion's neck.

"What an idiot I am for not thinking of this as the cause," Garion laughs. "You're fiercer than I gave you credit for."

As if to prove it, Angela asks, "Again?"

"Who am I to refuse?"

**Author's Note:**

> These terrible lesbians and their fancy metaphorical dialogue are infecting my brain, because I was writing something else and the character speech got suddenly really flowery LOL...  
> Just throwing this onto the site. Dunno how good it really is


End file.
